


Elementary

by TheHoardingPuffin



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Bisexual Derek Morgan, Bisexual Spencer Reid, Delusions, Multi, Nightmares, Pre-Relationship, References to Sherlock Holmes, delusional UnSub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25583974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHoardingPuffin/pseuds/TheHoardingPuffin
Summary: The BAU team gets called to London, Ohio to investigate in a series of murders that seem to replicate kills from the Sherlock Holmes novels. As they try to find out who did this - and why - Spencer Reid struggles with coming to terms with a fact he recently realized about himself.
Relationships: Derek Morgan & Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid
Comments: 6
Kudos: 122





	Elementary

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there!  
> Recently I've been all about Criminal Minds. I am still not entirely through it (currently finishing Season 7) but I'm hopelessly enthralled with the show, especially one Spencer Reid.  
> Anyhow, obviously I am not an FBI agent or police officer so please cut me some slack with the details in this. Also, I haven't written anything in the genre of crime- or detective-stories so this is a dive into cold water for me. Be gentle, please and thank you.  
> Furthermore I absolutely made up the amount of different hostels and hotels in London, Ohio including the names. I tried to look it up on Maps but it seemed like there are no hostels or hotels in London OH specifically. So for the story's sake let's pretend there are.  
> I will probably write at least one more story that adds onto this one, so keep your eyes open for that if it interests you.  
> Please leave comments or critique down below, it helps me tons.  
> Love, Lotta

**_The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.” ― Arthur Conan Doyle_ **

There were many things Spencer Reid knew. In fact, his eidetic memory stopped him from forgetting any information he had ever heard, read or otherwise acquired. However, in this very moment, his mind was hazy with remainders of sleep, and of all the things he knew, three facts stood out to his mind.

One: It was currently four twenty-eight in the morning, which meant he had only gotten roughly five hours of sleep.

Two: He hadn’t been woken up by his alarm – it went off at five twenty-five every morning – but had startled up from a nightmare… not for the first time this week, or even the last few weeks.

Three: All his nightmares had involved one specific person, which lead him to believing that somehow, without him realizing, his feelings towards this person had changed.

And, a bonus four: He would not be able to sleep anymore. He was already too wide awake for sleeping. Best to get up and start his day.

Whilst he stood in his kitchen, preparing some oatmeal and his first coffee, he allowed himself to dwell on his recent dreams… nightmares.

They weren’t always exactly the same, but they all had a few things that matched up. He always found himself in some very, very crowded place, a market place, a train station, a bar or club… and it was too loud and too tight and generally entirely not his comfort zone. He’d start panicking, as people pushed past him, the air smelling from all of their odours… and suddenly he’d see a familiar face, coming up to him, a wide smile, a greeting shouted above the noise – “There you are! I’ve been looking for you! Not really your scene, huh? Well, let’s get out of here!” and Spencer would nod, eager to flee the crowd – and then he would hear the shot. There would be a hole in his friend’s chest, blood starting to come out, soak into the fabric of the t-shirt, and as Spencer caught his friend and tried to stop the bleeding, the blood would stain his hands…

And then he’d wake up.

Spencer Reid was no stranger to nightmares – reoccurring nightmares specifically. He’d had them after the Fisher King. After Tobias Hankel. Especially after Hankel. And then about Riley Jenkins. The ones he got now were still relatively new, but like any other nightmare, they shook him to the core. More so, perhaps, because they weren’t flashbacks to things that had happened. They were depictions of something that could happen any day on his job. Could happen to any of his friends on the team. _Had_ happened to some of them. Except that they were still there, breathing.

Spencer drank his coffee – stopping himself from downing it in one big gulp and to take sips instead (it made the caffeine work more gradually which was healthier) and to eat his oatmeal in between sips. It wasn’t exactly a great breakfast, nothing special, but it was quick and easy to make and it satiated his hunger well, giving him the energy he needed for the day. Especially after a night with little sleep.

He owned a car and had a driver’s license, but he never drove to work unless the weather was horrendous. Given that it was a mild spring day, driving wasn’t even an option on his mind. He usually took public transportation, but he was early, so he decided to walk. He had plenty of time on his hands after all and it was a nice, albeit cold, morning.

He walked into work on time, not the first and not the last to arrive – and was immediately greeted by Garcia shoving a file into his hands.

“Good morning, Boy Wonder”, she said. “No time to sit and ponder, there’s a new case and it’s urgent.”

“Aren’t they all?”

He flipped through the file as he and Garcia walked to the conference room. No less than ten minutes later, the whole team was there, listening to the briefing.  
“So, these two gentlemen are Thomas Fletcher and Mason Hoppsted”, Garcia explained. “They were both found within the last twenty-four hours, dead in their hotel rooms in London, Ohio. They were visiting from Edinburgh in Scotland. They were supposed to fly home in two days. Instead, their trip found a rather rapid end because someone stabbed them. They didn’t know each other as far as is known, but the murders are definitely connected. Not just by time and place, but by this.”

The pictures on the whiteboard changed from the portraits of the two victims to two photos of hotel room walls, with the headboard of the beds barely visible at the bottom. Over the bed, in what could only be blood, a word had been written. _Rache_.

“German for _revenge_ ”, Emily observed.

“Like in _A Study in Scarlet_ ”, Spencer noticed. “The word on the wall, it’s just like in the story.”

“Sherlock Holmes, really?” Morgan frowned. “I mean, not to rule it out, but it doesn’t have to be the reason, right?”

“Not necessarily…”  
“We can discuss details when we’re in the air”, Hotch said. “Wheels up in an hour.”

“Good to have you here”, said police chief Martinos, a Hispanic woman in her mid-thirties. She shook the agents’ hands and lead them into a small conference room where the photos of the crime scene were already pinned up onto a corkboard.

“We just got the DNA results from the blood on the walls”, she explained. “The writing in Mr. Fletcher’s room was done with Mr. Hoppsted’s blood, and vice versa. Whoever did this stopped the bleeding quickly, probably after draining the blood from their chest wounds to write. The blood that’s splattered all over their rooms is not human, it’s most likely cow’s blood.”

“Again, like in Study in Scarlet”, Spencer noticed. “Uh, when they find Drebber in his room, with the word _Rache_ written on the wall, there’s blood all over the room but it’s not Drebber’s, because he appears unarmed.”  
“But wasn’t Drebber poisoned in that novel?”, Martinos asked. Spencer nodded. “Yes, but still, the similarities are there and I don’t think it’s unintentional.”

“So, what, are we looking at a Sherlock Holmes fanatic?” Emily’s glance wandered from the photos to Reid and back. The genius frowned, thinking.

“Maybe… or a literary professor, or student, or anyone interested in detectives or criminology… but currently we have nothing to go by other than the crime scenes…”

“No fingerprints, no DNA”, Martinos supplied. “We searched the scene already but you’re free to check it for yourselves of course.”

Hotch nodded and started giving tasks. Reid and Emily would go to the crime scene, Morgan would go to the morgue to see if the autopsies gave away any more information, JJ would work out something with the media, keeping the sensation-lust of the reporters at bay to the best of her abilities, and Hotch and Rossi would go over the already existing information and start working on the profile.

“This connection to _Sherlock Holmes_ could mean he or she wants attention for his murders”, Reid mused in the car. “Holmes is arguably the most famous fictional detective in existence, so if someone recreates kills from the books that’s sure to attract people’s interest, right?”

Emily nodded, taking a turn around the corner. “That’s a theory”, she said. “Hey, _Study in Scarlet_ is the first one, right?”  
Reid nodded. “The opening, so to speak – originally Arthur Conan Doyle wanted to create a parody of detective characters by other popular authors of his time, but it soon became a very popular series. So popular in fact that when Doyle killed his character off in _The Adventure of the Final Problem_ , fans pressured him into bringing him back. It’s also speculated that the genre of fanfiction started with the original _Sherlock Holmes_ fans; they wrote their own stories when waiting for new books to come out, sending them to each other in letters… I’m rambling again, right?”  
“Yep.” Emily parked the car in front of the hotel.

The two rooms were up on the third floor, numbers 220 and 222 – the rooms alternates, the even numbers on the right side of the hallway, uneven on the left.

“The doors both face the room 221”, Emily noted. “Like 221b Baker Street.”

“Which, at the time, was a fictional house number”, Reid added. “The Baker Street houses were only numbered up to 85.”

The entered room 220. The body of Thomas Fletcher had been removed, but the rest was still untouched. Blood, furniture, everything. The bright red of the blood had turned brown now from having dried.  
“ _Rache_ – revenge… maybe our UnSub had a personal vendetta against these two?”  
“Wouldn’t make sense, they didn’t know each other before they arrived at the hotel”, Emily said. “They only were from the same city.”  
“Arthur Conan Doyle was also born in Edinburgh”, Spencer said, kneeling down to look at the spot where Fletcher’s body had been. “I really doubt that all this is a coincidence. For some reason, the UnSub is obsessed with _Sherlock Holmes_ … what’s that there?”

“What?”

Spencer held up a small metal object that had been hidden under the bed. It was a tiny, silver anchor, maybe two centimetres long.

“They were both stabbed roughly at four am this morning”, the coroner, a young woman with bright red hair, explained. “Mr. Fletcher was first, Mr. Hoppsted shortly after. Both were stabbed one single time, injuring lung vessels. Afterwards, the wounds were stuffed with these.”

She pointed at a metallic side table, where four blood-soaked objects rested in a bowl. Morgan took a closer look.

“Uh… are those…?”

“Women’s menstrual articles, yes.” The coroner grimaced. “Didn’t see that one before. They semi-sufficiently stopped the bleeding, but I was told their blood was used for writing, and you would need a lot of blood to write. The killer must have drained the wound immediately after removing the weapon.”

“So stabbing was the cause of death? Nothing in their blood?”

“Nothing at all”, the woman confirmed. “Well, except for some toxic traces from the, uh, the tampons. But not enough for a Toxic Shock Syndrome. No drugs, no alcohol.”

“If they weren’t drugged, how did the UnSub kill them? In their sleep?”

“Unlikely Rossi replied to JJ’s suggestion. “Their sheets were clean.”

“Maybe he killed them in bed and carried them to the middle of their rooms post-mortum? To drain their wounds and to stuff the tampons in?”

“Possibly”, Reid said. “What about the anchors through? We found them in both rooms. They were hidden under the beds.”

“Well, they can’t be the victims’”, Morgan said. “Why would they have identical charms under their beds?”

“And why were they under the beds in the first place?”, JJ added. “They could easily have been overlooked, why plant them there instead of in a more obvious spot?”

Before anyone could answer, an officer came into the conference room.

“There’s been another one”, he breathed out.

“Another murder like these?”, Martinos asked.

“Not quite. But I’m sure it’s the same guy.”

“Emilia Jake, 21, visiting from Sussex, England”, the police officer recounted, walking Hotch, Morgan and Reid onto the crime scene – yet another hotel room. This time, there was no blood, no _Rache_ written on the wall. The dead woman was still on the bed, pictures being taken by a forensic photographer.

“She was throttled to death”, Officer Chanzer said. “The pillow that was used does not belong to the hotel. Right there.”

He pointed at a small pillow in a light grey case that indeed did not fit in with the white-green-violet theme of the hotel room.

“It has an anchor on it”, Reid noticed and started looking for a silver anchor charm. He found it under the bed again.

“Definitely the same UnSub”, Morgan said. “The anchor is their motive.”

“And what about the Sherlock Holmes connections?”, Hotch asked.

Reid frowned. “I’m trying to remember if there ever was one with a throttled victim…”

His face pulled into a slight grimace as he went through his knowledge of Sherlock Holmes, trying to find a similarity…

“Her mouth looks weird, don’t you think?”, Morgan asked, pulling Spencer out of his thoughts rather abruptly. The genius stepped next to Derek, then gut closer to the bed, kneeling down next to it and looking at the victim’s face.

“Her mouth is glued shut”, he said slowly, then reached out with one gloved hand. The lips came apart easily, the mouth fell open… and on Emilia’s tongue sat something. Reid grimaced, then reached in… and pulled out a blue plastic gem, shaped like a diamond prism.

“What the…” Derek’s eyes widened. “Reid? What’re you thinking?”

“ _The Blue Carbuncle_ ”, Spencer said. “In _The Blue Carbuncle_ , a blue gemstone is stolen and later found in the crop of a Christmas goose. Granted, geese don’t actually have a crop… but here’s the _Sherlock Holmes_ theme again.”  
“So our UnSub really tries to recreate cases”, Hotch mused. “Does _The Blue Carbuncle_ have any special significance?”

“Not really”, Spencer said, setting the gem down. “It was published in January 1892. It was adapted onto film and for TV a few times but there’s no real significance I can think of other than that I found it particularly uninteresting personally, an opinion many share…”

“So… is our UnSub randomly picking stories to replicate?”

“Maybe. _The Blue Carbuncle_ is chronologically set after _A Study in Scarlet_ but… much later. There’s no way to tell which story the UnSub will copy next, if they will copy one at all, which I think we can assume to be the case.”

“I think we need some magic right about now”, Derek said, pulling out his phone and dialling the number.

“ _You’ve reached the empress of flamboyance and technical espionage, Penelope Garcia”,_ came the voice over the speaker. _“Speak, mortal!_ ”

“Hey, baby-girl, I need you to look something up for me.”

“ _Me and my search engine are ready. What d’you need?_ ”

“Can you look up anything related to Sherlock Holmes and our victims?”

“ _Already did that, sugar, for the two gentlemen – na da, other than their home town being the birth place of the author_.”

“Try Emilia Jake, from Sussex”, Derek said. “She’d our new victim.”

He quickly described the situation.

“ _Uargh – disgusting. Wow. Okay, I’m running her right now… and nope. Zilch. I got nothing related to Sherlock Holmes, and also no relation to the other victims_.”

“Uh, Garcia, try to look for anything Sherlock Holmes related in London, Ohio that either happened recently or will happen soon”, Spencer said.

“ _That should only take a moment… Nope, nothing other than a digitalized article from the eighties when Ohio Sherlock Holmes fans searched for a house that our favourite fictional detective may have lived in, which obviously came out empty.”_

“Okay, but keep digging, mama, okay? I’ll call you back if we get more.”

“ _I’ll be awaiting eagerly. Buh-bye_!”

“Chronologically, the next story would be _The Speckled Band_ ”, Spencer mumbled. “It’s a fan favourite, even though it’s very inaccurate… but the UnSub wasn’t chronologically consistent before so it could be any story…”

“I just wonder why it’s Sherlock Holmes?” Emily rubbed her temple as if a headache was announcing itself. “And how it connects to the anchors.”

“Anchors…” Spencer bit his lip, thinking. “The perhaps greatest antagonist to Sherlock Holmes is Professor Moriarty, he’s the only one apart from Irene Adler who matches Holmes’ intellect… Moriarty is a name descended from _Ó Muircheartaigh_ which translates to _skilled navigator_ …”

“Maybe the UnSub understands themselves as Moriarty”, Rossi said. “And they want a Sherlock Holmes to come and stop them.”

“Yeah but… Moriarty kills Holmes. Not vice versa.” Spencer leaned back in his chair. “We need to know who the Sherlock Holmes is in this situation.”

“A former partner maybe”, Emily suggested. “A childhood friends, uh… I don’t know, it could be anyone really.”  
Spencer nodded and yawned. It was getting late, they hadn’t really gotten anywhere with the profile, didn’t know when their UnSub would strike again and he had only gotten five hours of sleep. This was gonna be a tough night…

“Okay, so… We know that so far the UnSub has only targeted visitors from the UK, places related to Doyle, and killed them in their hotel rooms.” Rossi tapped his nose. “Both hotels have old keyholes, no mechanic lock with a card, which means it doesn’t necessarily have to be someone who worked at the hotels. All three kills were direct, organized and probably planned in detail beforehand. Also, they have some personal connection to _Sherlock Holmes_.”

“Also we have no inkling of what age, gender, heritage, looks and so on may be”, JJ added to the summary.

“I’ll have Garcia run a check on both hotels, see who worked there on the hours around the murders, just in case”, Derek said, already dialling the number.

“I think Officer Chanzer wasn’t all too keen to let us stay at the hotel”, Spencer said as he dropped his go-bag onto one of the two beds.

“Nah, didn’t seem like it.” Derek yawned. “But we don’t have any reason to believe that the UnSub will target us. He might not even know we’re here.”

“Exactly.” Spencer started changing his clothes for bed.

“You said, the next murder might be based on _The Speckled Band_ ”, Derek said. “What’s that one about?”

“Sherlock and Watson meet a woman who feels threatened by her stepfather. The sister of the woman had died two years before, her last words being the speckled band – they take on the case and stay in the room of the woman, which has been her sister’s room before… and they end up finding a venomous snake, the aforementioned speckled band. There is more to it but truthfully I’m too tired to bore you with the details of the fictional reasons to kill by the fictional killer.”

“I appreciate it. Tired as hell…”

And with that, they finished their nightly routine and went to sleep. Right before his eyes fell shut, Spencer hoped that he wouldn’t have another nightmare. Not with Derek in the room.

No such luck.

_He found himself in a museum. Of all crowded places, museums were usually a place he liked being at, but normally crowds in museums were quiet, in awe of the art or the history around them. This time, there was noise. It wasn’t so loud that it was deafening, but it was a steady, annoying hum, loud enough for him not to be able to focus on the statue before him._

_A few children were running around, chasing each other, bumping against Spencer’s legs and sending him stumbling and falling._

_He grabbed his glasses – glasses, he didn’t usually wear those, how odd – and put them back onto his face, but there were so many people around him, walking too close for him to get back onto his feet… someone kicked him against the shoulder, someone stepped onto his hand…_

_“There you are!”_

_A strong hand pulled him up._

_“You okay?”_

_“Uh, yeah… yeah I’m fine.”_

_“Perfect.”_

_His fingers threaded through Spencer’s. “Now, have you stared at that statue long enough? There is more to this museum that this one naked guy.”_

_Spencer chuckled. “Not a guy, Derek, that’s… that’s the Apollo Belvedere!”_

_“Still. Greek naked guy. Whatever. C’mon, pretty boy, let’s go!”_

_And gently, Derek lead him through the crowd, a steady calming presence by his side. He let Spencer tell him all kinds of useless facts about the different artwork, smiling softly about it._

_“Okay, baby, that’s interesting and all”, he finally said, letting go of his hand and stepping in front of him, looking him in the eye. “But how about we get outta here? Get something to eat, I’m starving!”_

_Spencer wanted to answer, but before he count, he heard a loud thundering noise and Derek fell to his knees, deep red blood blooming into an ugly flower on his chest, and three words leaving his lips with his last breaths –_

Spencer awoke with a start, breathing heavily, his lips dry and tears stinging in his eyes. He sat up, trying to control his breathing and hastily looked around the room. Derek was still asleep – good. That meant Spencer wouldn’t have to talk about his dream. Nightmare. Whatever. What time was it…?

3:52 am. Great.

Spencer got up, went to the bathroom, splashed some cold water in his face and washed off the tear tracks. He sat on the toilet until he had his breathing and his mind under complete control again, then he did what had to be done and went back to bed. He would need the sleep, as hard as it came this time.

“The UnSub left a note”, Chief Martinos said instead of a greeting when the team arrived at the police station the next morning. She held up a white envelope, then handed it to Emily, who opened it, pulled out the letter and, after taking a deep breath, started reading it out loud.

“ _My dear nemesis, my beautiful second half. My Holmes. I hope you enjoyed my little gifts. I’ll leave you another one today. Come and find me! I’m sure you will – after all, you, my love, my infinite soulmate, can see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. Steady sail_.”

“Steady sail – another nod to Moriarty’s name”, Reid observed.

“Have any new bodies been found?”, Hotch asked. The chief shook her head.

“But it must happen any time now. The letter did say so.”

“That would be at least four kills in only two days”, Derek observed. “He’s either on a deadline of some sort or is rapidly working himself into a psychotic break.”

“Either way, we need to work fast.” JJ sighed.

“She will replicate The Speckled Band for sure”, Spencer said. “Uh, she used a quote… _But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me_. It’s what Helen says to Holmes in the beginning of the story.”

“She?” Martinos raised an eyebrow at that.

“Most likely, the eloquence of the letter in connection the petnames – _my love, my soulmate_ – all of that is usually a sign of a female writer.”

“At least some information.” Rossi clicked his tongue. “We can add that to our profile.”  
“I already send out my folks out to search, but I think we should get a call sooner or later if the UnSub stays true to their ways.”

Reid stepped away from the conversation to pour himself some coffee from the small kitchenette. After a second, Derek stopped next to him, also pouring himself a cup.

“You okay?”

Spencer managed not to jump and nodded. “Yeah. Sure. There’s a killer loose but… fine.”

Derek sighed. “You’ve not been sleeping well lately, have you?”

“What… how?”

“Have you looked into a mirror recently?”

Spencer sighed and took a big sip of his coffee before getting to work.

Two hours later, they had a slightly more detailed profile and also a new death. A hostel manager called, telling them about a dead woman who had been found by the room service. Derek and Emily went to investigate, JJ talked to the press again and the others sat over the profile again, discussing it with the police officers and with Garcia on the phone piping in to help.

“She’s named Charlize Matthews”, the police officer said. “She checked in two days ago.”

“Visiting from the UK?”, Emily guessed.

“From London, England, yes.”

Derek knelt down next to the victim. She was placed on her back, on her bed. Next to her head was a dead snake. On the bedside table were a glass of milk and a flute. There was an anchor again, too – printed on the t-shirt the dead woman was wearing.

“I’ll make a wild guess and say that this is not hers”, Derek said. Emily pursed her lips, the took a picture of the snake.

“I’ll send this to Garcia, she can find out where you can get this kind of snake…”

She picked up the dead snake with one gloved hand, then put it back, then moved on the milk glass and the flute.

“There’s… something… in here…”

One of the crime scene investigators handed her a pair of tweezers and Emily pulled out a rolled-up piece of paper.

“Another message”, she said. “ _Congratulations, my love, my fearless love, my Holmes. You found my gift and I’m sure you liked it. This is one of your classics, isn’t it? I thought you would appreciate it. I will give you another gift, my lover, a case of precious white. Steady sails_.”

“Why is she leaving hints now?”, Derek asked. “Does she want us to find her?”  
“If she believes that she is Moriarty and there is a Sherlock out here, then yes”, Emily said. “She views Holmes as Moriarty’s true love, soulmate, whatever, so she thinks the murders will lure him to her!”

“Makes sense. I just wonder… if this is so urgent for her, how does she remain so controlled in her kills? She seems to be escalating, the kills follow so quick on each other…”

“One thing that was particular about the character of Moriarty was his calm”, Spencer explained. “He was Holmes’ equal in almost all regards, they were a perfect match. They both were highly intelligent and sophisticated, talking to each other with high respect even when battling physical for their life or death…”

“What could case of precious white refer to?”, Martinos asked. “The ivory box?”

“ _The Adventure of the Dying Detective_.” Spencer nodded. “Culverton Smith sends Holmes an ivory box prepared with a tropical illness that Holmes pretends to have caught to subdue Smith.”

“Does that mean she will send an illness to a random person?”

“I don’t hope so… but it’s possible.”

The phone rang.

“Hey baby-girl”, Morgan greeted. “Give me some good news.”

“ _Okay, so, I checked the data of all hotels and hostels in the area for visitors from the UK. Excluding the victims there are currently two more, Olivia Jaffe from Bristol and John Mike from Cambridge. They’re both checked into the same hotel for the rest of this week, the Hitchcock Inn, I’m sending you the addresses to your handhelds.”_

“I’m sending my folks in”, Martinos said, stood up and left. The agents followed suit.

 _“I also checked that snake and it’s a Garter snake, which are present throughout most of North America and aren’t dangerous to humans. Whatever caused Matthews’ death, it was not the snake_.”

“Oh, yes, the autopsy report just came back”, JJ said, walking along them, holding up a file. “Charlize Matthews was killed with an overdose of morphine.”

“ _Oh, I’ll check that!_ ”

A few moments of silence in which the agents got into their respective cars.

“ _So obviously morphine as a drug is prescription-only for hospitals and nursing agencies and the like, we all know that; there has been a reported theft of morphine from a hospital in Baskerville, Virginia five days ago, but nobody was found_.”  
“Our Moriarty then”, Spencer said, putting on his vest – they had kept them stored in the car. Morgan leaned over and helped him, and vice versa, then turned around to assist Emily.

The room of John Mike was empty, the man wasn’t even there – he was sitting in the café by the lobby, but when they arrived at Olivia Jaffe’s room, the UnSub was already there. When they opened the door, she stood over the bed, where Olivia was sitting, her torso slumped against the headboards, a white box in her hands, opened with a needle inside.

“Ah, it is you.”

The young woman – early twenties, tall, brunette – at the foot of the bed turned around to them, an excited smile on her face. She didn’t even seem to notice that there were several guns pointing at her, or she didn’t care. She looked from one person to the next, obviously searching something in their faces.

“So, who is it?”, she asked. “Which one of you is my beloved Sherlock Holmes? Come forth, my soulmate! I have waited for you.”

Without thinking, Spencer took a step forth. “Moriarty?”, he guessed.

“So it’s you then? My Sherlock?” Her smile got wider. „Lower the gun, dearest, we don’t need that.”

“What is your name, Moriarty?”, Spencer asked. “Your real name?”

“Does it matter? The name this body was given is irrelevant, I am reborn and I am what I was what I’ll be what I am which is Moriarty. And you are Holmes.”

“I am not Sherlock Holmes”, Spencer said, slowly. “My name is Dr. Spencer Reid, I…”

“No!”, the woman hissed. “You, you are Holmes. I am Moriarty. I know it. You know it.“

Her face suddenly softened. „Doesn’t this excite you? I did this for you, I recreated it – I can create more, for you to solve… you must remember, you must recall…”

“Moriarty”, Emily said. “Did you kill those people to… attract Sherlock? To… make him remember?”

“He has an amazing mind, but I knew he needed time to remember. So I helped him. I helped! I did this for you, my Holmes!”

“You killed people. People Moriarty did not kill in the books”, Spencer said. “Why? Why not re-commit crimes Moriarty has done before?”

“To make you remember quicker!”

“You killed four people to make me remember you?”

“Three! Just the three!” Suddenly, the woman grinned wickedly. „Olivia here will be dead soon, but she isn’t yet.”

“What did you give her?”, Emily asked. “Morphine again?”

“I wanted a real tropical strain but I was running short.” Her eyes widened. “You don’t mind, Sherlock, do you? You remember? Remember what we had? A match made in heaven – two minds that think alike!”

“What did you give her?”, Emily asked again. “Was it morphine?”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Clearly _you_ are not Sherlock. Yes, the rest of the morphine, what else?”

Spencer’s mind worked feverishly. They had to get Olivia out of the room and into medical custody before it was too late…

“Moriarty”, he said. “I appreciate this. Really, I do, but… this is enough. So I’ll make a deal with you. After all, deals are our specialty, right?”

He awaited the woman’s eager nod before he continued.

“I have some policemen with me. I want you to let them take Olivia away… I remember, she is no longer necessary. And furthermore, you will come with me, and we’ll talk about the… details. Does that sound good?“

The woman nodded again. She stepped away from the bed, allowed the policemen to cuff her and to take the unresponsive young woman, all of this whilst smiling dazedly at Reid.

The next night, they were back up in the air, flying home. The woman – Allison Gables – had been identified and would soon be admitted to a mental facility, since she clearly suffered from delusions. They had been able to find her mother, who lived in Bristol in Tennessee. She had come and had confirmed that her daughter had always been obsessed with _Sherlock Holmes_ stories, due to her father loving them. Recently, Mr. Gables had died, and Allison had left home for some “travelling” – in that time, she clearly had fallen victim to her own delusions and convinced herself that she was the reincarnated Moriarty, and that there had to be a Sherlock, too, reincarnated to re-assume his place as a perfect match. Two geniuses, soulmates, not romantically, but intellectually.

Morgan was watching Spencer. He was sitting on the tiny sofa, rubbing his eyes. He looked pale and tired. More so than ever.

“Go on”, Emily, who was sitting across from Derek, said. “Go over there and ask.”

“Huh? Ask what?”

“Whatever’s on your tongue.”

Morgan sighed. “Profilers…”

Emily chuckled. “Get your ass over there.”

“Okay, fine.” Derek stood up and walked over, sitting down next to Spencer. The younger man looked up.

“Hi”, he said, seemingly surprised.

“Hey.” Derek allowed himself a soft smile. “How are you?”

“Uh… okay? Tired…”

“You really haven’t gotten much sleep, huh? With that case…” He let out a huff of air, too faint to really be a laugh. “Moriarty. Sherlock Holmes. Who’d have expected that?”

“It’s not just the case”, Spencer admitted. “You were right, at the station. I didn’t sleep a lot lately.”

“Are your headaches back?”

“They’re never fully gone, but that wasn’t it…” Spencer sighed. “Derek, I’ve been having nightmares. Bad ones.”

Derek nodded. “What about?”

A hint of red crept onto Spencer’s cheeks. “Does it matter?”

“You don’t… you don’t have to tell me”, Derek said. “But I’m here, y’know?”

Spencer nodded, and then, in a hushed voice, started talking about his nightly terrors. Crowded places, somehow getting saved by Derek, only to see Derek shot.  
“Is it just me?”, Derek asked. Spencer nodded.

“Why?”

Now, Spencer was definitely blushing. Furiously. It even went up to his ears.

“I… this really doesn’t matter.”

“Reid? Come on. You can tell me.”

Spencer sighed.  
“Derek, I… I really cannot tell you, it would be unprofessional, and… workplace relationships and… our friendship, I…”

“Should I profile you? Or will you tell me?”

Spencer just stared for a moment.

“I… I realized that… with those dreams… I am more afraid of losing… losing you than before.”

“So you _like_ me?”

Spencer didn’t answer, but his blush got darker which was answer enough.

“You’re lucky then.” Derek leaned back , grinning. “How about this – we get home, both get a good nights’ sleep and then, we meet up for coffee and a talk. Sound good?”

Spencer blushed _even harder_ – how was that even possible? – and nodded.

**Giving someone a piece of your soul is better than giving a piece of your heart. Because souls are eternal.” – Helen Boswell**


End file.
